In Which I Call Myself Out For Committing Grave Errors

I'm old enough to know much better than
To hurry on the days, and weeks, and years.
Though I expect to have a good lifespan,
Surprises do occur, and my career's
Not really what I'd call just starting, so
I chide myself a bit, to find I long
For these two weeks to hurry by; I go
Quite soon to Balticon. But it is wrong
To treat that time as worthless. I have made
Commitments e'en beyond the greatest one:
To make each moment count rather than fade
In idleness. E'en worse, I also shun
This summer, for I've plans laid for the fall
That thrill me more; mayhap the most of all.

In Which It May Not Yet Be Spring

My lilacs bow like Atlas 'neath the weight

Of many inches of wet, sloppy snow.

It's far from Fortean to have, so late,

Such quantity dumped on us, but, you know

I'm really done with this. O Baltimore,

Weird city I shall visit just weeks hence,

Please tell me you shall have sunshine in store

And balmy weather. My wish is intense

To feel true springtime! But I should be glad:

The rototilling didn't go as deep

As shall be needed; moisture won't be bad

For this, our effort. Meanwhile I'll just keep

My snow boots and my shovel handy. Sigh.

Just months ago snow so gladdened my eye...

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Realize That Balticon Is A Bit Of A Misnomer

I spent this weekend, nose against the glass
(Entirely in a sad, virt'ual way)
As folks from far and near converged en masse
On Baltimore to pass the time of day
With Charles Stross and others I admire.
O Balticon! I'd love so to be there.
The internet permits me to inquire
As to the doings, who and what and where
The action is. I'm somewhat puzzled, though.
The folks I know keep sending photographs
Of mostly-bacon BLTs. I know
They're taking these in quest of some cheap laughs.
I'm laughing, too, but mostly at my game.
Won't Bacon-Con be a much better name?